Life's a Game
by KillMeHealMe
Summary: You just need to know how to play it. Post-Reichenbach: Sherlocks return should have been happy but when a murderer who puts a macabre twist on old fashioned fairy tales makes him and and his friends into the next players of the game, they start to realise that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world that a bullet could end him.
1. Establishing the Players

_Disclaimer- Apart from the storyline and OC's, everything belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss and of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

Establishing the Players

The Black Pearl restaurant lived up to its name by way of it being expensive. The main dining room had chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and intricate art work of heavenly deities to surround them. Every item on every table had been meticulously placed without a spot to be seen on them or the table cloth. Only the most upstanding and wealthy dined here.

A woman stepped out of the cold night into the restaurant and glided towards the waiter who stood by the inside entrance.

"I have a reservation."

The man nodded, bored. "Name?"

"Sebastian Moran."

She twisted around to face the newcomer as the waiter nodded.

"Right this way, Sir."

The waiter began to make his way over to a table towards the back of the cavernous room. She followed as did Moran. They both sat down at their table and the waiter left them to their menus.

"Alright, what's this about Seb?"

He didn't even bother to glance up at her. "It's about the work as always. Boss 'as a new job for you. Ain't you meant to be smart?"

"Clearly smarter than you. Didn't anyone tell you he's dead? Have you looked at the news in the past 3 months? My contract ended the moment he pulled the trigger."

He smirked before looking up at her. "I think I'll have the special. How about you?"

"I think I'll have your head served on a platter if you don't tell me what's going on."

"Oh really?"

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't believe you'll risk it."

"Try me."

He sighed. "Why do you always have to ruin my fun?"

She raised an eyebrow. "We clearly have different definitions of 'fun'. Now, why am I here?"

"Crime's been on the drop. Boss wants you to cause some panic; show people that the peace 'as just been a little break 'fore the big finish."

"I don't have a boss. He's dead. It's pretty hard to fake a bullet through the head."

He just smirked.

"Fine but I'm done. I told him when he first employed me that I wouldn't cause harm in London. It's too much of a risk."

He nodded and reached for the bag he'd brought in with him. From it, he withdrew an envelope which he handed over to her.

"He told me that if you said that, I were meant to give you this."

The envelope was sealed with a blood red seal without much other detail other than the name 'Eris' written in a beautiful calligraphy. When she opened it, a photograph slipped out.

Eris' face drained of all blood.

"'e said if you want 'im to stay that pretty, you'll take the job."

She looked back up at him, resigned. "What does he want me to do?"

x-(13)-x

_Next morning _

John had long since become accustomed to being woken up by loud, shrill noises.

When he was a kid, Harry had always woken him up by running into his room screaming at him before promptly launching herself on top of him. When she left for University, his mother would yell at him through his door multiple times to wake him up.

In Afghanistan, the harsh sounds of bullets being fired often raised him from sleep if he ever did manage to sleep at all.

Ever since his return to London, the sound of Sherlock's violin or the whistling of Mrs Hudson's kettle had woken him. Something he had often complained over. He would give up anything just to wake up to it again.

He didn't need shrill noises anymore. It was rare for him to sleep let alone be woken up from it.

It had been three months. Three months of nothing. Three months of the same routine. Waking up withhis voice breaking under the weight of tears.

A routine of switching of the superfluous alarm clock, a casual blur of bleak colours and meaningless sounds. Of avoiding Mycrofts' phone calls and Lestrades' apologies. Where did three months go?

The only difference in a week was Saturday. Although, that had also become a routine. Get up at 7.00am, shower, shave, force down a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson as she talked on about something unimportant, walk to the graveyard (avoiding taxi's at all cost; too many memories) and talk to Sherlocks' grave for an hour or so about the little he could remember about his week. Then it went back to the same routine.

This morning hadn't been any different. The sun was filtering through light clouds as a breeze twisted the leaves around their stalks. The graveyard was the perfect symbol of serenity; graves of different colour and design all lined up in rows with flowers at the foot of the majority of them. John had never bothered with flowers, Sherlock used to scoff at them every time they passed a graveyard. Sentiment.

Quite fitting that there was no sign of life here. Not even the birds sung over the dead.

John deviated from the path to trudge down the hill towards Sherlocks grave. John had never seen a visitor other than him since the funeral. He assumed that Mycroft had something to do with it but that was probably his imagination. People just didn't care anymore.

He would have loved to say that it was this that caused him to be surprised to see the back of a young woman facing the grave he visited every Saturday. But it wasn't. There was no surprise, no real feeling at all.

He came to a stop beside her and just stared at the grave; he wasn't about to speak and make a fool out of himself in front of some complete stranger.

There was something about the grave that was an oddity to John. A single stem of flowers had been laid out next to the headstone; it had a pale yellowy pink complexion with purple splashes inside its bell shaped petals.

"How long?"

Her voice had a sharp, unsympathetic quality to it with little other emotion.

"How long what?"

He saw her move slightly out of the corner of his eye.

"How long has he been dead?"

Still there was no emotion in her voice. It was cold and calculating, an observing tone that he had long become accustomed to.

"Three months."

"How?"

"He jumped off St Barts hospital and fractured his cranium. He killed himself."

"Weak."

John twisted to face her, feeling his face redden as his temper rose. "How dare you. He was the strongest man I've ever met; the best man I've ever met. You never knew him like I did! Nobody knew him like I did."

The young women turned to face him. She had long dark brown, nearly black, hair that framed her face in an almost angelic fashion with porcelain white skin and light pink, plump lips turned into a slight smile. She was very thin and could only be in her early twenties if not younger. A set of dark sun glasses covered her eyes. She was dressed in a black, corset backed coat that reached the back of her legs but came up to her waist at the front, a deep red skirt with sensible high heels and a heart shaped locket with angel wings working as the lid. Beautiful.

"I wondered how long it would take to break past the doctors cold, logical exterior."

He paused. "How did you know I'm a doctor?"

The slight smile became a smirk. "You're speaking about your friend with a perfect monotone about his death, you described a cracked skull as a 'fractured cranium' which is a specifically medical term and you have an atrocious bed side manner. Need I continue?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm not anyone. I don't exist as far as the Government's concerned and as far as you know, they're right. You?"

He looked back towards the grave. "Why should I tell you my name if you won't tell me yours?"

"Because you do exist."

"John Watson."

She nodded. "Well then, John Watson, I bid you fairfarren."

John had never heard of that word before but the flowers were what bothered him most. Sherlock had always hated that form of sentiment.

"If you knew Sherlock so well, then you would know that he hated flowers on graves." He called to her retreating back.

She paused. "No. He hated sentiment. Foxglove is more of an... inside joke. I'm sure Mycroft can fill you in on that story; he's good at giving out confidential information if nothing else." Her tone turned bitter in a far darker way than John had ever heard.

John turned back to the grave as she began to walk away once again. "The most interesting thing in my week to tell you and you witnessed the whole thing. Err... well, Lestrade seems to have given up talking to me but Mycroft is still being stubborn..."

x-(13)-x

The young woman walked out of the cemetery toward a black cab that was parked to the left of the entrance. The door was opened from the inside and she slipped into the car and slammed the door after her.

"How does he look?"

She glanced over at the man sat by her side. He was dressed in a white t-shirt with a black jacket over the top of it, jeans and a pair of formal black shoes. His hair was bleached blonde and was as fake as his mud-brown eye colour caused by the contacts he was wearing.

"Stop acting like Mycroft and do your own dirty work."

A smirk flickered across his features. "Stop acting like Mycroft and tell me the answer."

The young woman rolled her eyes. "Touché." She paused, clearly not wanting to continue. "He looked dead, ironically enough. This is why sentiment and having friends is so stupid, Lockie; they effect the work."

"Other people manage it." Even to him, the argument sounded weak.

"Other people are idiots. They're not like us. We will never have that luxury." She removed her glasses to reveal storm grey eyes with hints of blue, identical to his.

He scanned over her appearance for a moment. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

"What?"

"Your mind works in the same way as mine Ursula. Did you really think I wouldn't notice that necklace? You rarely bother with jewellery let alone something that obviously cost a fair amount. Someone gave it to you as a gift and the fact that you are wearing it says you care enough about them to do so. Who is he?"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't need to know about every person I make contact with." The car slowly came to a stop outside a beautiful building. It was semi-detached and three stories high with balconies coming off three of the windows. It appeared well cared for as well as expensive and had steps leading up to the double doors.

Sherlock and Ursula both stepped out after paying the tab and headed up the steps.

x-(13)-x

John could understand that Mycroft was sorry even if he couldn't forgive him, but following him down from the cemetery every time he went was beginning to grate on his nerves.

He knew reacting to it was pointless. Ignoring him was the only way to go. Mycroft only ever followed him to the cemetery in his black, chauffer driven car; he never tried to make any contact after Sherlocks' funeral.

Which is why John knew something was wrong when his mobile started to ring with Mycrofts name in the caller ID. He sighed; might as well get it over with.

He got in the car with an air of disinterest and faced the elder Holmes. "Before you start talking about Sherlock, take my advice: don't."

Before he could continue, Mycroft raised his hand to cut him off.

"I'm not. I have far more vital inquiries to make at the moment."

For the first time in three months, John took a good look at Mycrofts appearance. He had lost a great deal of weight since the funeral which he suspected had nothing to do with any diet and now looked gaunt, almost frail. He clearly hadn't been sleeping well and his voice was laced with what could only be described as worry.

It was this more than anything that convinced John to listen.

With a sigh, he asked Mycroft to continue.

"Has a young woman been anywhere near Sherlocks grave this morning?"

John gave him a pointed look. I've seen a young woman by there if that's what you mean."

"Pretty, pale skin, dark hair?"

Well, yeah but how do you know it's the same person as you're looking for?"

A pause. "I don't believe in coincidence, John. What did she say?"

He shrugged. "Nothing important. She wanted to know about Sherlocks... passing. Err... She knew I was a doctor without me even telling her and something about foxglove. Why?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing to concern yourself over."

He felt his temper rising again."Bullshit! If it didn't concern me, she wouldn't have spoken to me at the cemetery and you wouldn't be asking questions! As a matter of fact, she told me to ask you about the foxglove because you knew the story."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in obvious exasperation. "Of course she did. If she contacts you again, you have to contact me immediately."

"Why? Who is she?"

"The most dangerous person you will ever meet."

"Sherlock said that about you."

The passenger door, opened by the driver, caused John to jolt. He hadn't noticed that they had arrived outside of 221B.

"Sherlock didn't plan on you ever meeting her."

x-(13)-x

_Later that evening_

They had gotten the call about an hour ago. A woman found dead in an empty apartment by a group of teenagers. Terrific.

Going up the stairs towards the apartment, Lestrade could smell the metallic scent from two flights down from the room. It should have sickened him but by now, he was used to it.

It was not a nice place to be in let alone die. The walls had old peeling wallpaper stuck to it in tatters, the stairs looked like they weren't far from rotting and there was graffiti in random spots of the interior. Going up the last flight of steps Lestrade couldn't help but think that if he were here, Sherlock would have already pointed out vital facts about why the killer chose here.

He shook his head. It was never a good idea to bring up Sherlock around crime scenes; pretty much everyone in the police and forensic team along with most of the world who knew of Holmes' work believed it to be fake. Something he had created to appear clever to the rest of the world. Greg Lestrade was not one of those people. He had doubted him once but he had been wrong. When he first met Sherlock, he was so high off his head that thinking straight should have been an impossibility and yet, he told him what he did, the state of his marriage, when his last cup of coffee had been and that the murderer they had been looking for was not the victims boyfriend but her jealous best friend instead. He was brilliant, amazing but not fake.

That was not a popular opinion to hold in the police; a lot of people already held a grudge towards him for not being demoted. A miracle that not even Sherlock could explain, he'd wager. He'd do himself no favour by making further problems though.

As he reached the door, Donovan stepped out. While she never did look particularly happy, the look on her face was far more melancholy than usual.

"You need to see this."

The metallic smell increased tenfold as he followed after her into the room. The victim was a middle-aged woman, pretty but not overly so dressed in a stiff, grey skirt, White blouse, tights and sensible heels; a working outfit. Pale skin, blonde hair and wide, brown eyes. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear and blood was still trickling down her throat onto the floor.

Lestrade frowned. A wound that deep would have sprayed blood everywhere and yet, there was no more blood than the small pool around her head. So, the murder was done somewhere else. Which meant there's less likely to be any key pieces of evidence in this room. Great.

"Sir."

He turned towards Donovan. She simply pointed at the mirror that hung from the wall.

"Oh shit."

x-(13)-x

"...and I've tried to clean out your fridge again but I swear I can still smell bits and pieces of those body parts he used to put in there. Can you imagine? Body parts right next to your food? I don't know how you put up with that for so long, dear. I mean..."

The sound of Johns mobile ringing cut off Mrs Hudsons rambling. Not that he had been listening. He often lost himself in thought when she began to speak.

He answered without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"John, I need you to come down to Eastward Street. You need to see this."

John sat up straight. "Why? You know I can't help you without him, Greg."

"It's not about help. It's just important you come. Will you?"

He sighed, "Yeah, I'll come."

"Great. I'll have someone meet you on the street when you get it." The line cut off.

"Who was that, dear?"

"Lestrade. He wants me to come to Eastward Street." He stood to grab his jacket.

"Do you want me to call a cab?"

"No! No thank you. It's only a ten minute walk from here. I'll be fine."

It took him exactly sixteen minutes to get there. When he did a young officer quickly escorted him up to one of the top floors of the block of flats. He couldn't help but feel grateful for Lestrades sense not to send Anderson or Donovan down for him.

The smell as he entered the room was almost overwhelming. He took in the scene quickly. Standard murder. Horrible but he failed to see why it concerned him.

"John."

He moved towards Lestrade. "What did you want to show me?"

Lestrade looked straight ahead. "That."

He moved towards where Lestrade was staring. It was a mirror. Intricate design around the frame and fairly sized. It would have been completely normal if not for the four pictures of him, Lestrade, that girl he met at the cemetery and... Sherlock surrounding a message in the centre of the glass.

Written in blood.

'Let the game begin.'

**After note: Rates and reviews are loved!**


	2. Stating the Rules

Stating the Rules

"Can someone please tell me what's going on?"

Greg, John, Sally and Anderson were all sat in Lestrades office after leaving the scene half an hour ago. So far, John had not said anything. He was more concerned with the photo of himself and Sherlock pinned to the mirror next to the message to bother with anything else. Lestrade however, was not the silent type

"Alright. First things first. John, do you recognise the victim?"

He shook his head.

"Me neither."

"Maybe Freak knew her." Donovan still hadn't stopped calling him that after his death. Apparently 'respect for the dead' didn't include Sherlock.

"It's possible but we have no proof either way if he did or not. Both Sherlock and the victim are dead." He winced slightly and looked towards John but he saw no reaction. "Don't suppose any of you lot know who that woman is?" He gestured to the photo of the young woman that had been pinned to the mirror that had been placed in a sealed plastic bag as evidence. Both Donovan and Anderson shook their head.

"Actually, I have seen her before. She was at Sherlocks grave today."

Greg waited for John to continue but after a moment of silence he lost his patience. "What's her name?

"As far as she's concerned, she doesn't have one."

Anderson scoffed. "How can she not have a name?"

"How can someone who technically doesn't exist have a name?"

The small group all turned to face the door where a young woman stood. She was pretty and petite with long, blonde wavy hair and green eyes set in a lightly tanned face. She was dressed in dark blue skinny jeans, a white v-neck top with a black leather jacket and ankle boots. She was also a complete stranger to everyone in the room.

"What do you mean 'she doesn't exist'?"

John quickly interjected. "She said as far as the Governments concerned, she doesn't exist."

The girl nodded. "She was marked as dead a long time ago."

"But that would mean that she's managed to get past Mycroft Holmes which is impossible." Lestrade objected. "Not even Sherlock could do that."

She shrugged. "That's just the sort of feat she loves."

"Wait a minute; who's Mycroft Holmes?"

John, Greg and the girl all looked towards Anderson and answered simultaneously. "The British Government."

"What I want to know is who are you?"

The girl studied John before answering. "My name's Lisa and I was asked to come and get you two." She pointed at John and Greg.

"Why the Hell would we follow you anywhere?"

"If you want to know who she is and what's going on in relation to the stiff you just found, I would recommend coming with me."

Lestrade let out a muffled string of curses under his breath. "Fine. We'll come." All four people in the room stood up to follow her.

"_Only_ you two."

Greg looked at her. "If you want us then you have to bring Donovan and Anderson as well."

She sneered. "You really think your opinion means anything to her?" She shook her head lightly. "Fine but you can explain them to her."

x-(13)-x

"He will not react well to this."

Ursula rolled her eyes from her position on the couch. She was swirling around her spoon in her tea as Sherlock paced back and forth across the room. "He's an army doctor whom you tricked into believing you're dead and made suffer for three months with the guilt of knowing he could have 'saved' you. Of course he won't react well to this."

Sherlock ignored her and continued to think aloud. "He will react in one of three ways. Denial where he will start yelling about my being alive to be impossible and possibly run out of the room. The truth may overload his mind and cause it to shut down for a second which will cause him to faint. Finally, anger which will most likely result in a couple of broken bones."

"Or he could react in a way that ends with the phrase 'he then turned the gun on himself'."

"There is an 89% chance that he will not have his gun on his person."

"Oh, you're no fun."

Sherlock paused in his pacing. "You were always better at understanding emotions than I was; what is the best way for me to react?"

"Put it this way: if he punches you, try to act surprised instead of being a smartarse. Okay?"

He just glared at her.

x-(13)-x

The small group clambered out of the chauffer driven car in front of a fairly sized house.

Lisa walked up the steps and entered, beckoning the rest of them to follow after her.

They entered into a cavernous room that had been decorated with a fancy decor. A fake chandelier hung from the ceiling and a twisted staircase led up to the next level of the house.

"Ma'am? I have the DI and the doctor here to see you." Her voice echoed across the house.

After a moment there was still no response. "I don't think she heard you." Anderson remarked snidely.

Lisa shook her head. "It's more likely that she is on the top floor and taking her time to get here."

"I'm a big fan of dramatic entrances."

John looked up towards the staircase where the young woman from the graveyard was descending. She was being followed by a tall, lightly muscled young man with blonde hair.

"How did my request for the doctor and the DI become a gathering of those two plus a slut and a moron?"

Anderson gaped at her while Donovan screamed: "Who the Hell do you think you're talking to?"

"A moron is someone who is stupid. The definition of stupid is knowing the truth and seeing the truth but still believing in the lies and by that definition, I believe I'm speaking to a moron."

"And what makes me a moron?" The man behind Ursula smiled thinly while Ursula raised an eyebrow as she stopped in front of Sally.

"You're not wearing any make-up and yet, judging by the slight smudge of mascara in the corner of your left eye, you usually wear at least a small amount. I can only smell one type of female deodorant which I know for a fact belongs to Lisa and the deodorant you're wearing is the same as the rat faced man next to you. The lack of response from DI Lestrade says that this is not an uncommon occurrence and while I would usually say you're dating, the wedding ring on his finger but the lack of both a ring or a mark on your finger says that he is married and you are not which makes this an affair. So, we have one slut who can't keep it in his pants when he sees a vaguely pretty woman and a moron who believes that he will eventually leave his wife for her but judging by the look that has just passed across his face, that just isn't going to happen." She gave a fake smile. "If I were you, I wouldn't give him another chance. Giving someone a second chance is like giving them an extra bullet for their gun because they missed you the first time." She winked as Donovan stared at her.

"How... the Hell... did you do that?" She turned to face Lestrade.

"You're telling me you spent years in Sherlock Holmes' presence and yet you don't know how I knew that?" She shook her head. "I'm very disappointed Greg."

"Who are you?"

"Perhaps we'd be better off in the living room before we get into that discussion. You're going to be here a while after all." With that, Ursula, Lisa and the young man all walked towards a room to the right of the entrance. The rest soon followed.

Once they had all seated themselves in the room, she began to speak.

"I've asked you here for a reason; about an hour ago I received a package containing a DVD with four names on it. Mine, both of yours and Sherlocks. It was titled 'watch me'. I'm going to assume it's connected with the dead woman you found today and the mirror with our pictures on it."

"Do you mind telling me how you know such classified information before we've released anything to the public?"

The young man who had sat down in the armchair farthest away from the couch John had sat himself down onto, smirked behind his blonde mop but only Lisa and Ursula noticed it out of the corner of her eye. Nobody else had taken that much notice of him so far.

"Mycroft Holmes is not the only one who is good with cameras."

She nodded towards the young man who pulled out a DVD out of his coat pocket and stood to place it in the machine. Lestrade watched him carefully; there was something about the tall male. He had to be just over six feet tall with a dirty blonde mop that was unlikely to be natural; his clothes were average enough, only his formal shoes were a slight oddity. The man suddenly looked towards Lestrade as though sensing his gaze. Mud brown eyes set in an almost painfully thin face; he had sharp cheekbones and alabaster skin, identical to the young woman. Lestrade was sure he hadn't seen the man before and yet, he looked... familiar.

Before he could comment, the DVD started to play.

The screen showed a shaky picture of a room obviously recorded from a hand-held camcorder. It was poorly lit and the walls had wallpaper rotting off of once white walls. There was only one piece of furniture in the room: a wooden chair.

The murder victim was tied to it.

Her arms and legs were tied to the chair to prevent escape but hands were free enough to clutch hold of a few pieces of paper.

"Good day lady and gentlemen... I'm sure you have noticed that without Moriarty, crime has dropped... I'm here to fix that..."

The woman was stuttering through the 'script' that had been handed to her and at every pause, a page of it was swiped from her hands by the person holding the camera.

"Over the past couple of years... People all over the world have speculated... and feared... the Fairytale Murders... Across the globe... A game has been played... With one person against many opponents... You are the latest players... People will continue to die if you fail to solve the game... The only way to solve it is to find your opponent... The next clue will be ready for you soon... It will be impossible to miss..."

The young woman looked up at the camera with tears streaming down her eyes and dying her skin black with mascara where it touched.

"Good luck." And the screen went black.

The silence in the room was soon broken.

"What the Hell was that about?"

Ursula rolled her eyes. "You should learn to keep thoughts inside your head, Anderson. If you're quiet, you have the illusion of possible intelligence but the second you speak you blow that all away."

"Oh, so you know exactly what's going on then, do you?"

"I know as much as everyone else as would you if you had just listened to the message."

"Alright you two!" Lestrade stood quickly and turned to her. "Looks like we'll have to work together a while so there's no point starting off in an argument. First thing we have to do is look up these 'Fairytale Murders' and find out what we're dealing with."

She let out a choked laugh. "You don't know about the Fairytale Murders? They're in the newspaper all the time with people going on about where one will be next!"

"I try to avoid newspapers. I've been in the police long enough to know that half of their 'details' are wrong and the other half don't affect me."

She sighed. "Of course. The Fairytale Murders, as the media has dubbed them, are a series of killings done across the world in a very specific style. The first victim was always random but they would have a message of some sort around them connecting four or five people; sometimes they have no relation, sometimes they were family or friends and other times they were just people that had met once or twice in their lifetimes. To play the game, they had to figure out who their opponent was and each death gave them a clue and after all the clues are given, they would have a week to solve it; if they couldn't, they were killed and the cycle would begin again somewhere else. The first one was set up in Chicago and was based on the story of 'Snow White'. A woman was injected with a fatal amount of botulinum toxin or botox and left splayed out in front of a mirror symbolising the Queens obsession with vanity and being 'the fairest of them all'. The second death was a man with his heart cut out and placed in a box with a pig head emblem by his side which represented the hunter and his lie to protect Snow White. One victim had a corset wrapped around her so tight she couldn't breathe and died from suffocation, one had a comb with poison on the teeth of it that had cut into the skin and killed them, one had been poisoned with a different form of poison from the first, with an apple by their side with a bite from it. There was one who was placed in a tank of water and left to drown which was an example of Snow Whites glass coffin. Finally, there was one victim who had been locked into an iron suit and placed on top of a fire and burned to death. In every murder scene, there was a scrap of paper with a verse from the original fairy tale. The people in Chicago didn't manage to figure it out. Their bodies were found two weeks after the last murder.

There was another game played in Spain with the story of Rapunzel being used and a nasty death involving a rope made from human hair, in Russia there was Little Red Riding Hood and someone got eaten by a wolf and in Rio De Jenaro it was Rumpelstiltskin resulting in the death of a baby. All these murders have resulted in the death of everyone that the game was intended for, no one could figure out who the other player was. It's been going on for about four years now."

"That's just sick." Lestrade had paled considerably since she began talking.

She shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Wait a minute." Everyone in the room turned to face John who hadn't said a word until now. "If the people in the pictures are meant to solve the game, then why is Sherlock there? He's... dead."

She studied him calmly before turning to the young man. "I thought you said he was good at making observations."

To say John went pale at that point would be a huge understatement. His entire face had gone white. He stared at the young man as did everyone else with the exception of Ursula and Lisa both of whom had a smirk on their face.

"_What_?!" Lestrade jumped to his feet and strode over to her. "Sherlock Holmes is _dead_. He has been for three months! How dare you bring us here and..."

"And what? I didn't say anything about Sherlock, detective inspector. I simply stated that John, well all of you, need to work on your observation skills."

"Oh, for Gods sake! We have another one who thinks they are superior to everyone else!" Anderson stood and also made his way to her. "We are far more apt at dealing with cases and 'observing' things than you are. Better than the freak ever was cause, if you haven't heard, he was a fake."

"_Anderson_!"

"Wh... _Oof_!" Anderson doubled over from the punch John had just delivered to his stomach.

"Sherlock was a great man, he was more intelligent than you and he was **not a fake!"**

A slow clapping suddenly filled the room. John looked up towards the young woman who was smiling broadly.

"There's the spark of a soldier!" She twisted towards the man behind her. "I'm starting to see why you like having him around."

He smiled lightly. "It's about time you started trusting my judgment."

To say John went pale would be an understatement. His face turned completely white at the sound of his voice. Greg, Sally and Anderson all stared at the young man in shock as he stood up in a single, graceful movement and walked over towards John, stopping just in front of him.

"I'm sorry." His voice was little more than a broken whisper.

John just stared at him. After a moment, he shook his head. "No. Sherlock may not care about people but he isn't cruel and you're not real."

"How would you like me to prove it?" He had managed to keep the logical tone of voice.

"I believe in this sort of situation, physical contact usually proves reality." Ursula commented.

"Physical contact... okay."

Sherlock looked at John expectantly and at the same time, John pulled back his fist and hit his cheek with a solid crunch.

Sherlock stumbled back a couple of steps from the force of the hit but otherwise did not react.

"Proof enough for you, Doctor?"

Everyone turned to look at Ursula.

"You told me not to be a smartarse and then go and do it yourself."

She smirked. "I'm obviously not as compassionate as you, Lockie."

"How could you do that?"

Sherlock looked back towards John appeared close to tears. "How could you make me believe for _three months_ that you were dead?!"

"I had to."

"Why? Why, Sherlock?" He surged towards him and began trying to hit him again. With every swing he let out a choked "Why?" but he was no longer thinking straight and that affected his aim enough for Sherlock to grasp hold of his arms and pull John into him. He circled his arms around him in a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

John continued to struggle for a moment before giving in and clutching Sherlock to him.

"I'm so sorry."

**After note: reviews are love!**


	3. Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

**Translations are at the bottom**

Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

"How did you do it?"

The small group had all sat themselves back down into the numerous seats spread about the living room. After recovering himself, John had sat back down onto the couch but this time he had pulled Sherlock next to him and sat him as close a proximity as possible. As though he were worried Sherlock would disappear again. The only person missing was Lisa who had gone to get an ice pack for Sherlocks cheek.

Ursula rolled her eyes at the DI. "It's not that hard if you just think about it."

"Not all of us are 'genius' psychopaths." Anderson muttered.

"High functioning sociopath." Ursula and Sherlock retorted in unison.

"Sherlock."

The young man sighed. "Simply put, I did very little of it. She was the main architect here." He nodded towards Ursula.

"So, how did you do it?" Greg turned to face her.

"Your ice pack, Mr Holmes." Lisa walked into the room and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Lisa."

She nodded and moved to sit next to Ursula. John looked at Sherlock before pulling the pack out of his hand and putting it to his cheek.

"Wait, before you answer that, who the hell are you?"

"I'm no one."

"You can't be no one!" Donovan interjected. "You exist don't you? So you must have a name."

"Whether I exist or not is a debatable subject."

"What the hell are you on? Of course you exist, we're talking to you right now!"

"Yes but to the rest of the public and to the government itself I don't. I'm an easily dismissible figure whom nobody knows. My name was wiped from the records long ago."

Sherlock chuckled from his place on the couch at Donovan's obvious irritation.

"Vous pouvez leur faire confiance. Lestrade et John peuvent garder un secret et Anderson et Donovan sont trop stupides pour savoir l'employer contre vous."

She glared at him. "Je ne fais pas confiance à n'importe qui dans la mesure où je peux les jeter."

Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan and John all looked at each other in confusion.

"What?"

"I believe they are speaking in French."

They all turned towards Lisa with the exception of Sherlock and Ursula who were still arguing.

She sighed before continuing. "Ever since I met her, ma'am has been very good with languages; I've heard her speak in Cantonese, Russian, Spanish and French in the past. I don't know if the same holds true for Mr Holmes but ever since he moved in here they would often switch between French and English quite naturally. I assume he must have some talent for them if he is fluent."

"So... They just randomly switch."

She shrugged. "It would seem so."

"Il poserait des problèmes graves si mon nom sortait!"

Even if they couldn't understand what was being said, it was clear that the young woman was getting very frustrated with Sherlock.

"Ils ne diront pas."

She studied him for a moment before sighing and slouching back into her seat. "Fine." She turned to face the small group.

"What I'm about to tell you is not for public consumption. If anyone finds out about me, I have no problems with homicide and when I tell you my name, you will believe me undoubtably."

They all gave a confused nod.

"Alright then. My name is Ursula Holmes and I'm the youngest and only female sibling of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes."

Greg cradled his head in his hands. "Of course you are."

"Just what we need: another freak."

"Oh, shut up." Lestrade, Sherlock and John all said in unison.

"Why can't people know about you?"

"Other than the people who participated in my disappearance, only the people whom I trust know that. Just to clarify, I only trust two people out of the many I know neither of whom are you. If I ever deem it vital I will tell you but until then you don't need to know."

The room went quiet as they considered her words.

"So, how did you do it?"

"You'd be amazed at how simple it is to fake someone's death. All you really need are willing participants.

On the day of the fall, there was a truck idling on the pavement just outside St Barts. Just in front of where Sherlock fell. The open part was filled with three layers of plastic bin bags, each of which contained pillows, feathers and just soft things. All three sides of the yellow wire caging are extendable and contractable to allow easy access for things to be rolled onto and off of the truck. All Sherlock had to do was jump onto it, roll down the ramp on its left side onto the pavement and make sure to land on the blood pack hidden inside his coat around the right shoulder so that it would explode and look like he had hit his head. The people surrounding him would all be in a state of shock so wouldn't notice him breathing extremely lightly, particularly not underneath that bloody great coat he insists on wearing. Anyone who did notice would pass it off as imagination. Before they turn him over he has a limited time to create enough moisture in his eyes that he can go without blinking for a while. Any and all medical practitioners at the scene where all paid off by me to 'test his pulse' before whisking him off on a gurney to the hospital."

She gave a light shrug. "Simple."

"And I suppose you also managed to temporarily stop his heart and organs while the forensic pathologist did a post mortem?"

She glanced over at Anderson with a look of impatience. "Why go through all that trouble when you have dear Molly Hooper." She nodded towards Sherlock. "I'll let you deal with that one, Lockie."

"Lockie?" Greg sputtered looking positively gleeful. The elder Holmes glared at him.

"Queest-ce que j'ai dit au sujet de ce nom?"

She just winked at him.

"I told Molly in advance about what I thought might happen. I asked her if she would help which she did by writing up death certificates for me and the like as well as taking over the duty of doing my 'autopsy'. Nobody bothered to check for a body."

"I checked your pulse and you didn't have one." It was murmured quietly but everyone heard him.

"I believe this is the reason for you findings doctor." Ursula took something from her pocket and threw it at him. It was a blue rubber ball.

"If you put that under your armpit and add enough pressure you can fool anyone in those circumstances. Especially considering you'd smacked your head into the tarmac just beforehand."

"I take it that was you as well?"

"He catches on quick."

"But... Why?"

He sighed. "Moriarty wanted to 'burn the heart out of me'. I either jumped from the building and died in disgrace or his assassins would shoot three of the only friends I have; Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and you. I faked my death to protect you. Since then, I've been tracking down the assassins so I could come back. I'd never just leave you, John." He looked at him in earnest.

John turned from his gaze only to find that the younger Holmes was studying him too. Her watch was far more piercing and familiar. She was deducing him.

"He can stay here for as long as you need, John."

Sherlock looked at her questioningly.

"J'expliquerai plus tard."

Sherlock gave a slight nod.

"So, back to the original problem. What are we going to do about these murders?"

"Nothing. These murders will happen no matter what you do. It's not your job to stop them, it's your job to figure out who your opponent is. No police, no outside help, just the chosen people which means you two" she pointed at Anderson and Donovan. "Had better leave before you become part of the game."

"You can't keep the police from noticing serial killings!"

"You'd be surprised what you can keep the police from noticing." The two Holmes shared a look. "If the game is played as it usually is then the person who was sent the original letter, in this case that would be me, will also receive the following letters. Each letter while have an address and a quote from the fairy tale being used. We just have to show up at the destinations before anyone else. Once we leave then and only then can we call the police."

Sherlock looked towards Donovan and Anderson. "So you two should leave."

"I think it's time we all went. I deserve a pint after listening to this." Lestrade stood up.

"John?"

"...yeah. Yeah I think I'm going to go as well."

He walked towards Lestrade who now stood at the door with Anderson and Donovan. He seemed reluctant to look at the elder Holmes. Sherlock stepped towards him, his hand outstretched as though wanting to stop him from leaving.

Ursula placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let me talk to him."

He gave a slight nod, for once unsure of himself.

She walked out the door to the street to see Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan getting into a cab with John insisting he can get his own.

As they drove away, she approached him.

"I can count on one hand the amount of times he's apologised to someone and I still wouldn't need all my fingers."

He turned towards her.

Dark circles around eyes, slouched appearance. Exhausted, hasn't slept well since Sherlock left. Clothes at least a size too big but bought around four or five months ago. Decline in eating and weight. Recent drop, people have stopped trying. Shaving foam behind the ear, decline in care of appearance. Avoids eye contact. Nerves? No... Guilt. Feels guilty for not being able to just forgive him. Still angry.

"Stop it."

She blinked at him. "You really have been around him too long, haven't you? Look, I'm not saying forgive him right now. Just give him a chance when you're ready. He's no good with emotion but he's trying and that has to be worth something. He wouldn't have left if he had any other option." She smiled slightly. "Just don't take too long; I don't know how many more experiments my house can take from him."

The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh at something so familiar and so Sherlock.

"I'll try."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson." She quickly lifted her arm in the air at a horizontal angle to stop the oncoming taxi. "Fairfarren."

She retreated into the house as he got in the cab and drove away.

"Why does he want me to stay here? I thought he'd want me back."

"Sherlock, he thought you were dead for three months. That's three months of grieving, of guilt for not saving you, of pain. He may understand the logic to it but emotions aren't logical. It's going to take time for him to get past this; just be patient."

He nodded slightly before heading upstairs to play his violin.

x-(13)-x

John sat on his armchair, eyes flicking between Sherlocks chair and his mobile. According to Mycroft, this 'Ursula' was potentially dangerous and not to be trusted. Otherwise he wouldn't have told him to contact him if he saw her again. But it was Mycroft who betrayed Sherlock in a sense whereas Ursula had saved him. He slowly put the phone onto the side table.

Although he wasn't sure if he trusted Sherlock himself, he trusted his judgment on people. If he could trust her, John didn't have anything to worry over.

He yawned exhaustedly. It was strange to actually feel tired again. To go from feeling nothing to being overwhelmed with emotion. He knew he was still in a state of shock from Sherlocks return from the dead but for now he was going to put off the possible repercussions and emotions he would eventually have to deal with. It could wait.

For now, John climbed up the stairs to his bedroom, he was going to have the first proper sleep in three months.

x-(13)-x

Alexandra Monroe hated working so late. London wasn't safe in the dark at the best of times but it was especially bad where she lived. She clambered up the steps to her ratty apartment and let her self in. She was so engrossed in texting her friend why she wasn't up to a night out tomorrow, she didn't notice the man behind the door. She just heard the shot.

x-(13)-x

Sherlock padded down the staircase, dressing gown hanging from his too thin frame and his hair stuck out in odd directions. As he reached the bottom, he noticed the letter sticking out of the letterbox. From his position he could see it was addressed to Ursula in a neat calligraphy, clearly written by a male, in red ink.

He picked the letter up and began to open it. Ursula kept very little from him and usually allowed him to open any letter he deemed interesting enough.

He slipped out a thin piece of paper and unfolded it.

**_"In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again."_**

**City Road Railway Station on the Northern Line. Walk down a little way on the track. You can't miss it.**

As he had been reading the letter, Ursula had walked in from the kitchen towards him, cigarette in hand.

"I really need to find a way of stopping you from reading my mail."

He smirked. "How is it you can smoke but I can't?"

"I didn't say you couldn't smoke, I said you couldn't set my table on fire."

"Boring."

She nodded towards the letter. "I take it that's the next clue?"

"Hmm. I know the place but if I ever knew the quote I must have deleted it."

He handed the letter. "Writer is clearly male, the paper is standard shop bought office stationary, pen is biro and the writer is clearly left handed judging by the slant on his letters."

She burst out laughing after reading the quote they had been given.

Sherlock frowned slightly and, never one to be patient, demanded what was so funny.

She shook her head. "You always said you liked the weird ones. Well, out of all the fairy tales our new friend could have picked, he went for the weirdest." She handed the letter back to him.

"The quote's from 'Alice in Wonderland' when Alice follows the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. The story makes very little logical sense."

"Fantastic."

She shrugged. "Best get ready then. We need to tell the others and get over there as soon as possible."

He nodded before trudging up the stairs after her.

x-(13)-x

John trudged down the steps, yawning and stretching leisurely. That had been the longest sleep he had in three months although he wouldn't have said it was a particularly good nights rest. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if he felt any better than he had the day before. He still felt a slight numbness in his chest that he knew was a result from shock. He also knew that once it wore off, the surge of emotion that would follow would probably result in him punching Sherlock yet again. He wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not.

He trudged into the kitchen and began to make a pot of tea.

"Two sugars in mine thank you."

John jerked around to face Mycroft who was sitting in his chair texting someone.

"How... Oh, never mind."

He finished making the tea and handed one to Mycroft before sitting himself in the chair next to the desk, almost subconsciously avoiding Sherlocks old armchair.

"What do you want, Mycroft? "

"I need you to tell me exactly what the young lady you met yesterday at the graveyard said."

"Jesus, I don't know. She asked about Sherlock mainly and then said something about the flowers she put down."

"She didn't mention her name? Where she was staying? Any people she had contact with?"

"Why the Hell would she tell me anything like that?"

"I'm just being thorough."

"Right. You still haven't answered my question from yesterday about the flowers."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not important."

"Then you shouldn't have a problem telling me."

He sighed. "My mother was an avid gardener. She loved growing anything and everything in her garden including potentially deadly plants such as foxglove. One summer when I was about twenty-seven, Sherlock had his eighteenth birthday party; not that he wanted it. It was set up entirely by mummy to show off for the friends of the family. One of our aunties had a small dog, a Yorkshire terrier if I remember correctly. She brought it everywhere. Unfortunately, it wasn't a particularly smart animal. About an hour into the party, our aunt started screaming; she had found her dog dead in the back of the garden. Instantly the blame went to Sherlock as, even then, he had a habit of experimenting on frogs and other small animals. It took him about five minutes to prove himself innocent and show everyone that the dog had stupidly eaten some of the deadly flowers. Mummy of course made sure everyone apologised to him for blaming him. The aunt never bothered to come back. A triumph I'm sure he would say. She always loathed him and tried to blame him for every little mistake. He always considered it to be a joke from that point on."

John nodded to himself.

"I'm curious John as to why you haven't asked about why she knows this."

He opened his mouth to answer but was beaten to it.

"Considering he already knows you're my brother, I imagine he filled in the blanks himself, My."

The elder Holmes tensed horribly, his hands shook slightly as he turned to face his sister. She smirked at his expression.

"How are you, brother dear?"

He swiftly stood up and placed himself inches from her face.

"What are you doing here? We agreed..."

"We agreed that I would stay out of the country so long as you kept Sherlock safe and I kept that promise. I only came when he needed me."

"And when exactly did he need you?"

"Around about the time you deemed it fit to give the most dangerous criminal in the world personal information about him."

He narrowed his eyes at her and she smiled in response.

"No man is more honourable or loyal than another. They just require a higher price to dignify themselves."

"And why did you stay after failing that?"

"What makes you think she failed?"

Both John and Mycroft looked towards the door where Sherlock now stood. Immediately, John felt his stomach twist into a knot at the sight of him as flickers of memories from the past three months came to his minds surface. Sherlock had his usual stoic expression on his face and appeared to be trying to get his brother to understand his actions by eye-contact alone. Other than his slightly wider-than-usual eyes, Mycroft appeared to be completely unbothered and collected about his brother returning from the dead right in front of him. The third Holmes was watching over her two brothers with a bitter smile; clearly finding humour in her eldest brothers rare lack of knowledge.

The silent conversation would have gone on for a long time had they not been disturbed.

"John dear? There's a taxi waiting outside the door, is it yours?"

Sherlock twisted himself around and stepped out of the doorway as Mrs Hudson made her way up the stairs towards the room.

"Err..."

He saw Ursula nod her head sharply at him from the corner of his eye.

"..Yeah, yeah it's for me."

Sherlock made his way to stand next to her and ducked his head down.

"Best keep this between us; we don't want more people knowing he's alive than necessary."

Mrs Hudson came into the room with a mild smile. "Oh hello, Mycroft dear. I didn't know you were here."

He gave her a tight smile. "Quite alright Mrs Hudson. I was just leaving." He quickly disappeared down the steps just as she noticed the other two Holmes in the room.

"Oh hello love. I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you friends of Johns?"

"Tha's right, luv. We met Johnny boy in uni an' we haven't seen 'im since we left. Jus' decided to pop in an' drag him out t' show us aroun' London cause we 'ardly know where we are anymore!" She chuckled lightly. "Ain't that right, Johnny?"

John was staring at her, dumbfounded. She had managed to drastically change her accent from an upper-class Londoner to something akin to the pirate from the Disney film.

"Ha! He's speechless. We still got it, babe." If Ursulas accent had been shocking, Sherlocks was practically comical. He'd taken his sisters lead and was attempting a warped cockney accent while changing the depth of his voice so it sounded higher pitched than natural.

"Well, that sounds lovely! I think it will do you some good to see your old friends, dear. Have fun." She quickly shooed the trio out of the room, almost desperate to see John getting on with his life outside of work and memories.

Once out, they all clambered into the taxi idling on the pavement and Ursula gave the directions to the station.

"Why can't she know about you?"

"Just as a precaution. We think the web Moriarty created is gone but we're just making sure. Besides, if the public found out, I wouldn't get a seconds peace." His voice had returned to its usual posh baritone.

"Right, why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot. Practically everyone is."

John allowed a disused smile to cross his face as Sherlock smirked at him. They were disturbed by a phone ringing. She took it out of her pocket.

"We'll be there in about fifteen minutes... Oh, of course they did. The day they listen to Sherlock or I is the day that secret service actually manages to keep something secret for more than five seconds... Okay, we'll see you there."

She looked a the others. "We're being joined by the Tweedles. Apparently Lisa couldn't shake them."

"Okay... Who are the 'Tweedles' and where are we going?"

"Anderson and Donovan and we're going to City Road Railway station. Apparently, our new friend had left us our first clue."

x-(13)-x

They met up with Lestrade, Lisa, Donovan and Anderson outside the decrepit remains of the stations entrance. It certainly held a historical image, built in red brick with columns standing on each side of the doorway which had bars across it to stop people going in. Mould clung to the building walls and where there was once glass windows now stood blacked out boards. It clearly hadn't been in use for years.

Until now.

As the group got closer, they could see a key jammed into the lock of the door leaving it accessible to them. Greg took hold of the cage door and pulled. Apart from the screech of protest from the hinges, the metal swung open without difficulty. The board that covered where the door would have been was easy to pick up and move leaving a gaping hole into the disused station. He pulled out a torch that he had been instructed to bring and began to lead the way into the dark.

Rats scurried from the light as they reached the platform and the stench of rot and vermin was pungent. Greg winced at the smell and flicked his torch around the remains.

"I don't see anything. Let me see that letter."

Ursula passed it over to him and he held it to the torch light.

"'Obvious!' Bloody well isn't 'obvious'."

"Yes it is." Sherlock muttered before turning to his sister. "You said that in the story, the girl falls down a rabbit hole. The murderer must have put his victim in the tunnel itself!"

He quickly started to sprint into the dark of the tunnel. Knowing that yelling for him to come back would make little if any difference, the small group ran after him. A small light flared into life ahead of them; Sherlock must have brought his torch with him. The small light suddenly stopped bouncing about and focused itself on the floor as the others finally caught up with him.

"Christ sake, Sherlock!" Greg huffed at him. "You can't just go running off into the dark like that!"

Holmes was clearly ignoring him as he bent down towards rail. As he did, the rest of the groups saw why he had stopped. In the middle of the track where Sherlock was crouched, was a young woman. She had brown hair cut in a bob, in her early twenties with dark blue eyes and dressed in casual clothing with a badge reading 'Alexandra Monroe' on it with 'New Look' printed on the top. Shop assistant. She had once been very pretty but her face was marred with the gunshot wound in her forehead and the trickle of blood that had leaked onto her face.

"Obvious cause of death." Sherlock stated. He began to inspect her for clues as to her murderer. "No blood on the walls or floor not to mention the possibility of ricochet if he fired the gun in here. Killed somewhere else." He searched the area around her and then looked back to her. After five minutes of this, he stood looking frustrated. "Nothing. He's left nothing."

"What do you mean 'nothing'? He can't have left nothing!"

"We'll apparently, he can. Find out where she lived and anything else you can find." He hissed back before storming up the steps.

Lestrade sighed. "Call in back up and get this place blocked off from the public." Donovan nodded. He moved next to John who was staring down at the young woman. "What does it tell you when Sherlock Holmes can't find any clues?"

John exhaled slowly. "It tells me we're dealing with someone like him."

**A/N: Exams suck. Please review!**

**Translations:**

Vous pouvez leur faire confiance. Lestrade et John peuvent garder un secret et Anderson et Donovan sont trop stupides pour savoir l'employer contre vous. - You can trust them. Lestrade and John can keep a secret and Anderson and Donovan are too stupid to know how to use it against you.

Je ne fais pas confiance à n'importe qui dans la mesure où je peux les jeter - I do not trust anyone as far as I can throw them.

Il poserait des problèmes graves si mon nom sortait! - It will cause huge problems if they know my name!

Ils ne diront pas. - They will not tell

Quest-ce que j'ai dit au sujet de ce nom? - What have I said about calling me that name?

J'expliquerai plus tard - I will explain later


End file.
